He had, indeed, been wounded--mortally wounded--but he spoke not of it. They raised him in their arms and carried him to an apartment in the castle; but, ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence Wilson had fled. Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. She now cried--"Florence!--Florence!--we shall be married to-night?--yes!--yes!--I have everything ready!" And again she spoke bitter words to her mother, and said that she had murdered her Florence. The spectators lifted her from his body, and Madge stood as one on whom affliction, in the midst of her triumph, had fallen as a palsy, depriving her of speech and action. "My poor bereaved bairn!" she at length exclaimed; and she took her daughter in her arms and kissed her--"ye hae indeed cause to mourn, for Florence was a noble lad!--but, oh, dinna say it was my doing, hinny!--dinna wyte yer mother!--will ye no, Janet? It is a great comfort that Florence has died like a hero." But Janet never was herself again. She became, as their neighbours said, a poor, melancholy, maundering creature, going about talking of her Florence and the surprise of Fast Castle, and ever ending her story--"But I maun awa hame and get ready, for Florence and I are to be married the nicht." Madge followed her, mourning, wheresoever she went, bearing with and soothing all her humours. But she had not long to bear them; for, within two years, Janet was laid by the side of Florence Wilson, in Coldingham kirkyard; and, before another winter howled over their peaceful graves, Madge lay at rest beside them. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH.